IC-N 


SB 


POEMS 

OF 

MARCUS   FAYETTE   BRIDGMAN. 


TALES  AT  THE  MANSE 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


MARCUS  FAYETTE  BRIDGMAN 


Boston,  fftass. 

FRED    S.    COLLINS 

20   BRATTLE    ST. 

1894 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  BY  FRED  S.  COLLINS. 


To  F.  S.  C. 
I  LOOK  ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

WHICH  SEPARATE  US, 
AND  OCTOBER  SENDS  A  GREETING  TO  JUNE. 


M191801 


Of  the  poems  originally  printed  in  the  volumes  entitled  "Mosses"  and 
"Under  the  Pine,"  seventeen  have  been  retained  with  some  changes  in  the 
present  collection. 


CONTENTS. 


TALES  AT  THE  MANSE. 

PAGE 

Preamble       .         .  •      .         .                   .         .  .              n 

Tale  I.     Mary  Lane         •• .        •         •         •  •         12 

Tale  II.     Hester  Heyne 18 

Tale  III.     The  Miller's  Daughter    .         .  .         .        34 

Tale.  IV.     The  Insane  Artist          .         .         .  .             31 

Tale  V.       The  Musician  and  his  (Daughter  .         .       36 

MOSSES. 
First  Poems. 

After  the  Summer                                               .  43 

Under  the  Willow       .         .         .         .        ..  .                 45 

fDrift        .         .         .        ..        ..    ...         .  .            48 

Under  Tine  ^Boughs  ...                            .  .         .       50 

In  the  La<p  of  Earth      .                  .         .         .  ji 

On  Looking  at  the  Portrait  of  (Burns       .  .         .       54 

One  Eve,         .  .         .         .       .  .         .         .         .  .           J7 


CONTENTS. 


SEAWEED. 

PAGE 

A  Gleam  of  Memory          ...  61 

The  Sexton .  oj 

Toward  the  (Bourne            ...  .67 

The  Soul's  Eclipse  6g 

The  Reconciliation     .         .  71 

The  Two  Travellers      ......  7j? 

The  Man  of  (Books    .  ....         75 

Adeline           ...                            .  77 

To  (Death's  Messenger        .  -79 

As  He  Leaned  Over  His  Awl                           .  So 

After  the  Wreck         .  82, 

At  the  Burial        .  84 

The  Two  Ways                                     .         .  .         .        86 

UNDER  THE  PINE. 

The  Likeness  on  the  Wall              .  8g 

A  Mill-Idyl      .  g$ 

Inside  the  Gate                        ....  g6 

Low-Tide -  98 

Seaward     "...                  ...  100 

Nepenthe                              ....  102, 

Agnes             ....  104 

The  Church  by  the  Green         .                  .  .         .108 

The  Last  (Request                            ...  log 

A  (kevery           .         .         .         .         .         .  .         .11-2, 


TALES  AT  THE  MANSE, 


Here  fall  the  rays  of  Memory  on  the  fields 
That  once  were  green, 
Like  moonlight  in  a  tranquil  autumn  eve, 
Upon  a  far-off  scene. 


PREAMBLE. 


HAI.F  a  mile  beyond  the  vale, 
Where  the  highway  climbs  the  slope, 
White  with  orchard  bloom  in  May, 
Near  the  weather-beaten  church, 
With  the  shadow  of  its  spire 
Stealing  o'er  the  grassy  graves, 
Looks  the  mansion  through  the  trees 
Still  across  the  vacant  street. 
Heavy  is  the  perfume  there 
Of  the  lilacs  every  spring, 
And  beside  the  silent  path 
Blossoms  yet  the  guelder-rose. 
Ancient  is  the  lonely  Manse, 
With  its  faded  yellow  walls, 
And  its  roof  with  moss  is  green, 
And  the  sombre  window-panes, 
\Vhere  the  daylight  steals  within, 


12  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


Mary   Lane. 


Half  are  hid  by  mantling  vines, 
While  the  honeysuckle  creeps, 
Rank  about  the  sleepy  porch. 

There  as  seasons  come  and  go, 
Distant  is  the  outer  world, 
Life  itself  a  quiet  dream. 

Lingering  in  the  frosty  years, 
In  the  twilight  of  the  Past, 
In  the  dim,  wainscoted  room, 
Sits  a  wrinkled,  white-haired  dame 
And  relates  these  simple  tales, 
As  I  tarry  for  a  night, 
Late  in  summer,  at  the  Manse, 
On  my  walk  to  Stokeley  Green. 


As  here  through  uneventful  days  I  sit 

Amid  the  shadows  of  my  lengthen'd  life, 

I  think  of  hours  so  oft  that  are  no  more. 

And  o'er  the  Present,  like  a  setting  sun, 

The  light  of  Memory  ever  softly  glows ! 

I  still  remember  well,  I  say,  the  time, 

(And  you  must  know  'twas  many  a  year  ago,) 

The  season  Edward  Randolph  led  his  bride 

From  yonder  church.     'Twas  when  the  locust-tree 

Was  scenting  still  the  air  of  June.     She  wore 

A  wreath  of  smilax,  and  six  wild-flowers  in 

Her  hair.     Yet,  Ralph,  how  fresh  and  fair  they  look, 


Tales  at  the  Manse.  13 


Through  five  and  forty  years,  as  I  recall 
The  scene !     As  fresh  and  fair  was  Mary  Lane, 
As  any  flower  that  day.     And  all  the  scene 
Conies  back  to  me,  as  'twere  but  yesterday. 

Two  miles  away  within  a  sleepy  dell, 

There  is  a  little  rustic  bridge  that  spans 

The  brooklet  slowly  slipping  through  the  run, 

And  where  the  sunshine  scarcely  steals  at  noon. 

The  crowfoot  every  summer  lightly  swims 

In  the  dark  waters  of  the  silent  stream, 

While  o'er  the  channel  leans  the  celandine 

From  the  moist  margin  which  is  rank  with  sedge. 

And  every  season  rocks  the  willow  tree 

Across  the  bridge  where  creeps  the  narrow  way. 

The  path  crawls  upward  from  the  lonely  run 

Through  birches  and  a  growth  of   underbrush, 

Winds  through  a  copse  of  stunted  oak  and  pine, 

And  then  descends  a  gentle  slope  to  join 

A  by-road,  shaded  oft  by  ash  and  elm. 

Well,  yes,  so  many  times  the  path  I've  trod 
To  Mary's  doorstep,  when  the  orchard  slopes 
Were  white,  or  days  were  balmy  with  the  first 
Spring  buds.     And  still  behind  a  pleasant  yard 


Tales  at  the  Manse. 


That  blossoms  every  May  with  snowballs,  where 

The  rosebush  blushes  by  the  path  in  June, 

Where  morning-glories  half  the  windows  hide, 

Looks  the  small  doorway  on  the  by-road  near, 

In  autumn  skirt  with  yellow  goldenrod. 

Twelve  years  had  whitened  yonder  button-wood, 

Each  May,  since  tidings  of  the  Falcon  sunk 

In  Bengal  Bay  the  story  told  how  half 

The  crew  with  Randolph,  master  of  the  ship 

Which  foundered  off  the  isles  of  Andaman, 

One  mournful  day  went  down,  as  outward  bound 

It  voyaged  from  the  coast  of  Hindoostan. 

To-night  I  recollect  the  afternoon 

So  well,  when  Edward's  fate  in  Bengal  Bay, 

At  length,  was  but  a  scarce  repeated  tale, 

That  Mary — Time  had  made  us  warmer  friends — 

Sat  in  her  room — 'twas  in  the  self -same  room — 

Whose    threshold  she  had  crossed  as  Randolph's  bride. 

Again  the  orchard  blossoms  scented  all 

The  air,  and  heavy  was  the  perfume  yet 

Of  lilacs  in  the  yard.     Then  while  his  song 

The  bobolink  across  the  grassland  sent, 

We  caught  the  sight  of  neighboring  fields,  the  brook, 

The  slope  hard  by,  the  wood  beyond.     Meantime 

We  turned  the  leaves  of  Memory  o'er  and  o'er, 


M™ciinc.  Tales  at  the  Manse.  15 


As  toward  the  by-gone  years  we  look'd,  where  some 

Had  kept  for  us  their  freshness  still.     "Sad  breaks 

The  sea  forever  on  its  sands,"  she  said, 

"One  word  repeating  ever,  Nevermore!" 

"And  yet,"  I  said,  "to-day  the  fair  sun  shines, 

The  vale  is  rich  with  orchard  bloom,  and  fresh 

With  scent  of  lilacs  and  of  snowballs,   all 

The  air  so  fragrant  with  the  balmy  life 

Which  still  the  spring  renews.     So  hearts  may  break, 

And  dead  hopes  rustle  like    the  autumn  leaves 

With  a  sad  sound  beneath  our  feet — for   us 

Shall  Nature  smile,  and  woo  us  oft  to  its 

Deep  peace — and  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Faith,  and  Love, 

Shall  make  the  present  and  the  future  still 

So  rich  with  golden  days." 

And  then,  at  length, 

We  both  sat  silent.     Well,  I  thought  the  years 
Had  changed  her  since  her  wedding-day.     So  calm 
Her  face  in  its  pale  beauty,  and  the  eyes, 
Overshadowed  by  the  pleasant  lids,    at  times 
Were  instinct  with  a  quiet  pensiveness. 
A  sweet  expression  had  the  countenance, 
But  it  was  thoughtful,  and  thereon  I  saw 
The  shadow  of  an  unhealed  grief,  as  when 
A  cloud  darkens  still  water. 


16  Tales  at  the  Manse. 

"True  it  is," 

She  said,  as  o'er  the  pleasant  fields  awhile 
She  gazed,  "that  Nature  woos  us  oft  to  its 
Deep  peace.     Yet  oft  to  broken  hearts,  Hope,  Joy, 
And  Love,  are  empty  words.     With  me  the  Faith 
Remains — and  Peace — but  not  the  Peace  which  Time 
Or  Nature  brings  to  wounded  souls." 

Beyond 

The  Manse,  in  later  months,  the  sumac  leaves 
Are  red  beside  the  churchyard  gate,  and  shines 
The  scarlet  hazel  every  year  hard  by. 
Not  distant  from  the  path  that  yonder  runs 
Between  the  crowded,  grassy  graves,  there  is 
A  moss-grown  stone.     The  poplar  o'er  it  waves 
Each  year,  where  blooms  the  goldenrod,  and  glows 
The  ripe  fruit  of  the  eglantine.     The  mound 
Is  eastward  of  the  middle  path,  and  o'er 
The  marble  creeps  the  vine.     There  half  the  name 
Perchance  the  eye  will  read.     The  bramble  leans 
Against  the  footstone  where  the  children  come 
To  pluck  its  berries  oft  in  summer-time, 
The  hawkweed  and  the  aster  in  the   short 
Autumnal  days.     And  oft  the  bluebird  sings 
In  the  gray  aspen,  in  the  mountain  ash 
The  oriole.     So  many  times  I've  heard 


iviSy~ei!ane.  Tales  at  the  Manse.  17 


The  linnet  in  the  willow  there,  and  once 
The  redstart  in  the  solitary  pine 
That  sighs  above  the  low,  dark  wall. 

I've  sat 

An  hour  sometimes  by  that  still  mound,  or  lean'd 
Across  the  headstone.     In  that  silent  earth, 
So  peaceful  is  the  sleep  of  Mary  Lane. 

I  saw  upon  old  Elinor's  pale  cheek 
A  tear.     She  bent  her  head  in  silent  thought, 
Then  buried  deep  her  face  within  her  hand. 
But  Myra  toucht,  at  length,  the  harpsichord, 
And  to  its  music  sang  a  quiet  song: 

When  shall  Time  its  solace  bring, 
For  the  hopes  that  fade  to-day? 

In  the  yellow  year? 
Will  it  warm  the  autumn  fields, 
When  from  Life  the  summer  goes, 

And  the  leaf  is  sere? 

When  shall  Love  in  calmer  days 
Fairer  be  than  fairest  flower  ?y 

In  the  yellow  year? 
When  the  blush  of  June  is  gone, 
When  the  bloom  has  left  the  rose, 

And  the  leaf  is  sere. 


18  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


So  died  the  song  of  Myra  on  the  ear, 

As  in  the  dusk}?-  room  we  silent  sat, 

And  on  the  dame  I  gazed  in  thoughtful  mood. 

She  raised  her  head,  but  spoke  not.  as  she  looked 

Through  the  still  woodbine  at  the  moonlit  sky, 

And  soon  again  began : 

In  yonder  vale, 

Where  two  low  willows  drink  the  sluggish  stream, 
And  spans  the  bridge  the  brook,  the  still  road  turns, 
Creeps  through  a  copse  of  maple,  then  by  one 
Low  sycamore  before  a  silent  lawn. 
Behind  the  lawn  that  every  year  is  green 
When  the  low  sycamore  is  bare,  and  fields 
By  autumn  frosts  are  brown'd,  a  mansion  stands, 
Whose  walls  are  mantled  thick  with  clambering  vines. 
The  windows  ever  have  a  gloomy  look 
Where  sleeps  the  heavy  honeysuckle  shade 
When  no  winds  stir.    The  straight  and  smooth-flagg'd  path 
Between  the  flower-beds  from  the  gateway  runs 
To  the  worn  footstep  of  a  sombre  porch, 
While  one  lone  locust  leans  against  the  eaves, 
And  steals  its  shadow  o'er  the  ancient  roof, 
As  sinks  the  sun.     Each  year  the  yard  with  grass 
Is  overgrown,  the  shrubbery  untrimm'd, 
The  flower-beds  oft  are  choked  with  summer  weeds, 


HeS^Heyne.  TdUS    dt    the    MCUTlSe.  19 


And  scarce  the  window-panes  are  visible 

Through  the  thick  greenery.     So  dimly  Day, 

Between  the  curtains  and  the  dark-leaved  vines, 

Illumes  the  solitary,  spacious  rooms, 

Or  peers  on  cloudless  nights  the  mellow  moon, 

Where  Hester  Heyne,  sole  heir 

And  tenant  of  the  mansion,  sits  or  glides 

Amid  the  shadows  of  a  distant  Past. 

Her  face  is  thin,  and  snowy-white  her  hair, 

Her  features  wrinkled,  but  there  lingers  still 

A  waning  lustre  in  her  mild,  grey  eye, 

And  light  is  still  her  step — her  form  as  yet 

Erect,  or  scarcely  by  the  strong  years  bent. 

Yes,  long  do  I  remember  her  as  old — 

A  lonely  woman  with  a  high-bred  air, 

And  with  the  manners  of   the  olden  time. 

There  often  as  the  noiseless  seasons  go, 

She  spectre-like  within  the  twilight  walks, 

Or  near  the  great  high  window  keeps  her  seat, 

But  sometimes  in  the  lonesome  later  years, 

Stands  thoughtful  by  a  portrait  on  the  wall. 

The  likeness  is  of  him  who  in  her  youth 

Her  fresh  heart  won,  but  died  upon  the  day 

They  would  have  wed.     The  face,  which  still  survives 


20  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


He 


The  dull  and  cankering  tooth  of  Time,  is  young, 

With  pleasant  lineaments  and  handsome  mouth, 

And  lustrous  eyes,  and  finely  moulded  chin. 

The  hair,  of  chestnut  hue,  in  wavy  lines 

Falls  to  the  shoulders,  and  the  brow  is  fair. 

Ah !  when  upon  the  canvas   streams  a  ray 

Of  golden  sunshine,  all  the  countenance 

Is  life-like,  where  the  lips  forever  seem 

About  to  speak.     From  a  small  casket  nigh, 

Long  kept  within  an  antique  cabinet, 

She  takes  a  single,  slender,  dark-brown  lock, 

Whereon  she  gazes  in  her  revery, 

Yet  from  it  she  will  often  cast  her  glance 

To  the  still  portrait.     But,  at  length,  the  lock 

Replacing  in  its  alabaster  case, 

She  slowly  shuts  the  cabinet  and  sits, 

Her  face  deep  buried  in  her  hand  for  hours 

In  silent  thought. 

I  know  not  if  the  dead 
Ever  come  back  to  earth,  or  if  they  do, 
Can  be  by  human  eye  discern'd.     Yet  so 
It  is  affirmed,  and  manifest  themselves, 
At  times,  to  our  gross  sense.     Perhaps  they  do. 
For  who  can  tell  what  mystic  ties  may  link 


.      .      .      .      ASCENDS  THE   LARGE   STONE   STEPS, 
THE   THRESHOLD   CROSSES,    ENTERING   THE    ROOM 
WITHOUT  A   FOOTFALL,   WHERE   OLD   HESTER   SITS, 
AS   EKIDE   FOR  BRIDEGROOM    WAITS. 


HeJte^Heyne.  TdUS    Cbt    the    MCUTlSe.  21 


The  spirits  of  the  Unseen  World  to  this? 
But  I,  indeed,  believe  if  from  their  sphere 
They  can  to  mundane  scenes  return,  they  must 
Revisit  oft  the  earthly  haunts  they   loved. 
Who  knows  but  sometimes  they  are  visible 
To  mortal  sight? 

'Tis  said,  that  as  the  time 

Comes  round  that  should  have  been  her  bridal-eve, 
Old  Hester  for  her  lover  patiently 
Her  vigil  keeps.     All  night  she  is  arrayed 
As  for  a  bridal  of  the  olden  days, 
In  costly  but  half -faded  dress,  and  rich 
Adornments  of  a  fashion  worn  no  more. 
The  story  runs,  that  at  a  certain  hour, 
Alighting  from  a  spectral  carriage  near, 
A  manly  form  ascends  the  large  stone  steps, 
The  threshold  crosses,  entering  the  room 
Without  a  footfall,  where  old  Hester  sits, 
As  bride  for  bridegroom  waits.     And  noiselessly 
With  scarce  a  gesture,  it  will  seat  itself 
Beside  the  aged,  withered  dame.     The  lips 
Oft  move  as  if  in  speech,  but  do  not  speak. 
The  features  are  of  one  in  early  life, 
Fair-brow'd,  with  many  a  dark-brown  lock,  the  face 
Yet  handsome,  but  the  countenance  is  pale, 


22  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


The  eyes  lack-lustred.     Its  allotted  space 
May  stay  the  speechless  and  mysterious  guest, 
The  still,  strange  visitor.     But  when  the  clock, 
"Which  heavily  ticks  out  the  fleeting  hours, 
Strikes  twelve  within  the  dimly  lighted  hall, 
The  form  departs,  while  not  an  echo  breaks 
The  silence — crosses  with  a  noiseless  step 
The  threshold — quits  the  mansion — then  is  lost 
In  moonlight,  or  the  viewless  air! 

Hard  by, 

The  breeze  sighs  in  the  single   cedar-tree, 
And  year  by  year  the  one  lone  locust  leans 
Against  the  ancient  eaves,  and  ever  there 
Are  mystic  whispers  of  the  night  and  day. 
And  I  have  heard  that  oft  on  summer  nights, 
A  wandering  strain  of   fitful  melody 
Will  through  a  window  and  the  clustering  vines 
Steal  softly  on  the  silent  air.     So  wild 
And  yet  ethereal  it  seems,  but  dies 
At  times,  or  on  the  silence  swells,  like  some 
Rare  harmony.     At  length,  the  strain  will  cease, 
And  quietly  a  feeble  voice  will  sing 
Some  snatches  of  a  half-forgotten  song, 
Or  simple  ballad  to  a  plaintive  air, 


Tales  at  the  Manse.  23 


Which  once,  perchance,  was  often  heard  in  days 
Of  Hutchinson  and  Howe. 

The  thorn-tree  stands, 

Where  creeps  the  grapevine  o'er  the  wall,  and  rank 
The  poppy  grows  beside  the  path  that  runs 
Between  the  beds  of  marjoram  and  rue, 
To  the  low  grass-plot  by  a  lonely  tarn. 
Thereby  you'll  see  a  button-wood  and  one 
Sad  fir,  whose  roots  have  deeply  struck  within 
The  darksome  soil,  and  o'er  the  margin  lean 
The  willows.     Blossoms  every  summer  there 
The  trumpet  honeysuckle,  every  year 
The  marigold  and  celandine.     The  sun 
Scarce  lights  the  waters  where  the  pickerel-weed 
Crawls  from  the  reedy  bank.     The  owl  will  sit 
In  the  high  hollow  of  the  button-wood 
From  the  first  flush  of  morn  to  dusky  eve, 
And  hoot,  yes,  often  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
Or  in  the  moonless  gloom.     Indeed,  the  place 
At  night-fall  is  a  spot  which  persons  shun. 

And  plantive  were  the  words  which  Myra  sang, 
As  then  her  fingers  toucht  the  harpsichord: 


24  TnJp<i  nf  t~hp    Mnn*P  Tale  in. 

J.(M,et>    CIL    Trie    JU.a7^Se.  The  Miller's  Daughter. 


Long  we  talk'd  of  autumn  days, 
Oft  of  golden  sunset  skies, 
And  the  quiet  words  she  spoke 
In  my  ear  are  lingering  yet  : 
"Southward  soon  the  swallow  flies, 
But  erelong  with  spring  returns, 
In  the  spring  will  you  forget?" 

Warm  the  field  beyond  me  lies, 
Blooms  to-day  the  guelder-rose, 
And  the  honeysuckle  blows, 
While  the  swallow  northward  flies : 
Swallow,  you  may  bring  the  spring, 
One  the  May  will  not  restore, 
Nor  the  spring  forevermore 


"She  will  not  wake,"  said  one, 
"More  still  her  breath  at  last, 

Than  low  winds  husht  at  eve, 
Whose  pain,  we  know,  is  past." 

Fresh  stole  the  early  air 
Across  the  summer  corn; 

The  night  had  brought  her  rest, 
Nepenthe  at  the  morn. 


Long  has  the  small  house  yonder  overlooked 
The  orchard,  where  the  well-worn  pathway  runs 
To  Dawson's  mill.     And  from  the  wide  highway 
Which  climbs  the  slope  to  meet  the  silent  street 


The  MiTkr's'Daughter.         T(lleS    dt    the    MCWSO.  25 


A  little  lane  between  the  hedges  leads 

To  the  still  cottage.     Thence  the  eye  may  catch, 

Above  the  orchard  and  neglected  hedge, 

A  distant  prospect  of   the  vale  below, 

The  winding  brook  that  steals  between  the  elms, 

And  peaceful  meadow-lands,  or  upland   farms, 

With  rustling  grain-fields  glistening  in  the  sun. 

Well,  no,  the  cottage  is  not  far  away, 

Just  up  the  shady,  sleepy  lane  hard  by. 

There  lives  the  white-hair'd  miller,  there  has  lived, 

I'm  thinking,  now  two  score  of  years  or  more. 

And  I  remember  at  this  hour  so  well, 

The  miller's  daughter.     Pleasant  is  her  face 

As  I  recall  it,  and  the  hazel  eyes 

Are  full  of   tenderness,  and  fair  is   yet 

The  brow.     What  matters  it  if  she  has  lain 

For  years  beneath  the  aspen-tree?    The  dead  live  oft 

In  Memory,  and  my  thoughts  .are  in  the  Past 

To-night. 

It  was,  but  it  was  autumns  since, 
Upon  a  Hallowe'en,  and  in  the  rites 
Yet  practiced  at  that  superstitious  eve, 
*Twas  said  she  saw  a  lover's  handsome  face, 
* 


Tales  at  the  Manse. 


A  mask,   a  coffin,  and  a  snow-white  stone. 

And  thinking  of   the  face  which  she  beheld, 

Within  the  mirror  of    the  darkened  room, 

She  laughed.     Nor  ceased  the  giddy  merriment 

Until  the  bell  within  the  ivied  tower 

Of   yonder  church,  toll'd  forth  the  midnight  hour. 

That  night  like  other  Hallowe'ens  had  gone, 
And  often  was  recall'd  to  mind  the  scene, 
Whose  rites   had  once  evoked  the  mystic  signs 
Of  Love  and  Death. 

And  in  the  course  of  time 

The  maiden's  love  was  won,  to  her  were  pledged 
The  hand,   the  faith,  the  troth  of  Edward  Earl. 

The  months  went  by,  the  seasons  passed,   a  year. 
But  toward  her  lukewarm  grew  his  heart.     And  still 
At  times,  the  two  would  walk  the  orchard  path 
In  pleasant  afternoons,  or  twilight  grey, 
Or  sometimes  loiter  in  the  quiet  lane, 
Or  sit  an  hour  beside  the  cottage  door, 
As  softly  waned  the  light  of   setting  suns. 
October  came  ere  long  with  mellow  days. 
He  went  more  seldom  to  the  cottage.     Yet 
Less  frequent.     Then,  one  evening  at  the  gate, 


The 


Tales  at  the  Manse.  27 


He  press'd  her  hand,  and  said  a  calm   "good  by." 

The  "good  by "  coldly  fell  upon  her  ear, 

And  woke  a  mournful  echo  in  her  soul. 

So  fickle  was  her  lover,  it  was  said. 

Nay,  nay,  but  false  the  heart  of  Edward  Earl. 

One  night,  old  Montague,  the  sexton,  sat 

Late  in  the  sacristy,  I've  heard  him  say, 

As  through  a  window  shone  the  summer  moon. 

And  while  he  gazed  upon  the  headstones  near, 

He  thought  how  often  he  had  ply'd  his  spade 

And  laid  the  dead  to  rest  hard  by.     And  oft 

He  thought  of  them  he'd  brought  to  slumber  there 

Since  the  wild  wintry  night  he  last  had  rung 

The  old  year  out,  the  new  year  in. 

"So  fast 

The  hour-glass  runs,"  he  thought,  "the  years  slide  by! 
At  best  life's  but  a  span.     And  well  I  know 
The  travellers  reach  the  self-same  goal  at  last, 
Where  all  roads  meet.     To-night  old  Floyd  sleeps  well, 
And  sound  by  yonder  locust  Roger  Hand. 
To-night  the  grass  beneath  the  willow-tree 
Is  green  on  Nancy  Gavin's  grave." 

The  breeze 

Stole  o'er  the  sexton's  cheek,  but  scarcely  stirr'd 
The  ivy  at  the  casement.     Softly  gleam'd 


28  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


The 


A  moment  in  the  west  a  setting  star, 

But  lower'd  o'er  Langley's  wood  a  gloomy  cloud. 

And  gazed  old  Montague  upon  the  scene, 

The  landscape  glimmering  in  the  moonlight  pale, 

Where  vague  the  valley  in  the  distance  lay, 

While  far  along  the  warm  horizon  loom'd 

The  dusky  outlines  of  the  silent  hills. 

And  white  the  headstones  in  the  churchyard  gleam ! 

As  in  the  sacristy  the  sexton  sits 

Buried  in  thought.     But  in  the  low  church  tower 

The  bell,  at  length,  the  hour  of  midnight  tolls, 

And  wakes  him  from  his  revery.     The  tones 

Die  on  his  ear,  and  faint  the  lamp  burns    yet 

Upon  the  table.     Did  he  fancy  it, 

Or  did  a  face  peer  on  him  through  the  vines, 

A  woman's  face,  a  woman's  figure  glide 

Among  the  tombstones,  hasten  down  the  path, 

And  straightway  vanish  through  the  churchyard  gate? 

The  grass  grows  rank  by  Dawson's  pond,  and  low 
The  willows  o'er  its  margin  lean,  but  bloom 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  celandine, 
The  wild  rosemary  every  summer  there. 
Dark  is  its  water  in  the  moonless  nights, 


At  p.  29. 


AH!    HER  GRAVE  WAS   DEEP, 
IN   QUIET   WATEK. 


The  M.T&  Daughter.     Tales  at  the  Manse. 


And  silent  is  the  gloomy  water-way, 

As  oft  the  beetle  whirs  among  the  reeds, 

Or  sometimes  when  the  days  are  long,   the  crow 

Will  sit  within  the  solitary  ash 

Hard  by,  or  near  it  in  the  button-wood, 

Half-dead  at  top,  the   blackbird  watch  the   sun. 

Still  is  the  mill,  and  still  the  water-way, 
And  cool  the  shadows  sleep  in  Dawson's  pond. 
They  slowly  bear  her  from  the  water's  edge, 
The  miller's  daughter,  on  the  morrow  when 
Above  the  willows  broke  the  morning  light. 
Yes,  slowly  in  the  early  morning  air, 
They  bear  her  lifeless  up  the  narrow  path 
That  winds  among  the  ancient  orchard  trees, 
To  yonder  doorway  where  the  woodbine  hides 
The  miller's  cottage.     Ah!   her  grave  was  deep, 
In  quiet  water. 

And  beyond  the  church 

They  gently  laid  her,  but  with  many  a  tear, 
A  few  rods  from  the  churchyard  wall.     And  when 
The  sexton  broke  the  fresh  turf  for  her  grave, 
At  morn,  'tis  said  the  raven  thrice  he  heard 
Above  him,  in  the  grey  light  of  the  dawn. 


30  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


The 


Yet  blossoms  over  her  the  goldenrod, 
Each  year  the  daisy.     Late  in  autumn  once 
I  pluck'd  an  aster  from  her  peaceful  mound. 

So  ran  the  tale  that  Elinor  rehearsed, 

And  thus  the  words,  at  length,  which  Myra   sang 


The  earth  is  green  to-day 
Above  the  lifeless  clay, 
There  droops  the  locust-tree, 
And  each  year  hums  the  bee, 
Where  blooms  the  sweet  brier-rose, 
And  many  a  wild  flower  grows. 

There  silent  is  the  ville, 

The  moon  looks  down  so  still, 

And  o'er  it  from  afar 

Each  night  the  evening  star. 

The  dew  at  morning  glows 

Upon  the  sweet  brier-rose. 

There  as  the  seasons  go, 
No  rude  winds  ever  blow, 
The  sunbeams  softly  sleep, 
And  stars  their  vigils  keep, 
Where  in  the  silent  dell 
To-day  lies  Isabel. 


The  Insane  Artist. 


Tales  at  the  Manse.  31 


Beyond  the  highway  is  the  quaint  old  house, 
Deep-gabled,  and  two  dormer  windows  look 
Upon  the  quiet  lawn. 

There  sometime   lived 
An  inmate  of  the  doctor's  family, 
I  recollect,  the  insane  artist.     Whence 
He  came,  or  what  his  history,  was  oft 
The  question  by  the  villagers  discuss'd, 
But  left  as  often  to  conjecture.     Time 
Has  since  refused  to  answer  it,  and  Death- 
Which  sealed  the  old  physician's  lips,  has  kept 
The  mystery. 

'Twas  one  mid-summer  eve, 
(Mid-summer,  for  the  sultry  days  had  come,) 
I  sat  within  the  artist's  studio, 
As  oft  I  did  with  him.     That  hour  I  well 
Recall.     The  quiet  gleam  of  the  still  moon 
Stole  softly  through  the  chamber   window-panes, 
And  filled  the  room  with  pale  and  mellow  light. 
No  sound  was  heard  in  all  the  village  street. 
But  now  and  then  the  faint  breeze  gently  stirred 
The  honeysuckle  at  the  casement.     I 
Remarked  that  night  the  paleness  of  his  face, 
The  lustre  of  his  eye,  which  fixt  on  me 
A  look  of  strange  intelligence,  and  yet 


32  Tales  at  the  Manse. 


The  Insane  Artist, 


Was  instinct  with  a  dreamy  melancholy. 

The  story  of  his  life  my  fancy  solved 

So  oft,   as  in  the  moonlit  room   I  watch' d 

The  settled  shadow  on  his  countenance, 

Or  listened  to  his  talk,  which  seemed,  at  times, 

Like  wild  words  uttered  in  a  troubled   dream. 

And  oft  the  village  gossip   I  recall'd, 

Of  one  whose  history  baffled  every  tongue. 

In  many  a  visit  to  his  studio, 

My  eyes  upon  some  picture  long  had  dwelt, 

Which  showed,  I  thought,   so  well  the  artist's  skill. 

In  one,  at  morn,  two  children  on  the  shore, 
With  glowing  faces  looking  from  the  strand, 
Upon  an  unknown  sea — and  both  were  fair. 

Another  scene  the  artist's  hand  had  sketch'd, 

Two  lovers  sitting  in  a  pleasant  vale, 

Hand  claspt  in  hand,  and  where  they  sat,  their   heads 

Were  both  within  one  aureola,  and  that 

Was  love.     The  youth's  fixt  countenance  was  bent, 

As  I  remember,  on  the  maiden's  face. 

Upon  them  from  the  valley's  slope  look'd   down 

A  low-towered  church.     And  in  that  quiet  dell 

The  light  and  shade  with  summer  slept.     I  saw 


The  Insane  Artist. 


Tales  at  the  Manse.  33 


Before  the  altar  of  the  low-tower'd  church 

A  bride  and  bridegroom  stand.     Above  them  shone 

The  chancel  window  glowing  in  the  sun, 

And  on  a  happy  day  the  twain  were  wed. 

Another  scene  comes  back  to  me.     A  sea 

Whose  ebbing  tide  had  left  the  white  sands  bare, 

A  boatman  and  his  boat  upon  the  shore, 

Two  forms  that  with  the    strong  years  now  were  bent, 

But  in  their  youth  I'd  seen  by  Life's  wide  main, 

And  at  the  altar  of  the  low-tower'd  church, 

When  on  a  happy  day  the  two  were  wed. 

Upon  the  table  burned  the  evening  lamp, 

No  sound  was  heard  in  all  the  vacant  street, 

While  higher  climbed  the  moon.      Sweet  was  the  scent 

Which  we  inhaled  of  new-mown  summer  fields 

That  lay  beyond  the  hedge-rows  and  the  lanes. 

"I've  finished  it,"  at  length,  the  artist   said, 
In  a  low  voice,  unveiling  to  my  gaze 
A  portrait.     "On  this  canvas  you  behold 
Her  face."     I  thought  it   beautiful   and  still 
Recall  it,  Ralph.     The  eyes  were  mild 
But  pensive,  pleasant  was  the  brow. 
5 


34  Tales  at  the  Manse.        The  T™eJvA 


The  Insane  Artist. 


"  The  days 

Go  by,  but  I  shall  see  her  soon,"  he  said, 
"And  she  will  say  the  portrait  is  so  like, 
Yes,  praise  my  poor,  poor  skill.     And  I  shall  look 
Upon  this  face  once  more,  that  always  seemed 
So  full  of  pity  for  her  love  and  mine. 
But  will  she  still  have  pity  for  our  love, 
Or  will  her  heart  be  cold?     0,  no,  not  cold, 
But  still  have  pity  for  our  love." 

Just  then 

Athwart  the  moon  there  crept  a  cloud,  and   threw 
Its  shadow  on  his  face.     And  yet  the  words 
Were  in  my  ears,   "  For  pity  of  her   love 
And  mine." 

'Twas  on  a  quiet  autumn  day 
I  saw  him,   when  six  pallmen  down  the   aisle 
Had  borne  him  to  the  church.     Few  were  the  words 
The  parson  uttered  at  that  hour.     At  last 
One  rose  and  o'er  the  lifeless  artist  bent, 
And  kiss'd  the  pale  dead  face.     And  then  her  own 
I  well  remarked.     It  was  the  one  I'd  seen 
Upon  the  painter's  canvas,  as  I  sat 
That  night  within  his  studio.     Yes,  thrice 
She  stoopt  and  kiss'd  the  clay-cold  face  and  wept. 


The  'Sn^Artist.  TaUS    dl    the     MCUYlSe.  35 


Then  Myra's  fingers  toucht  the  harpsichord, 
While  soft  and  low  she  sang  a  quiet  song : 


Often  do  I  recall  the  summer  hour 
When  slowly  walking  on  the  sandy   shore, 
We  paused  at  length  beside  the  restless  sea, 
And  said,  "  So  far  apart  our  paths  would  be, 
That  never  could  be  one  forevermore." 

And  softly  o'er  us  shone  the  sinking  sun, 
That  warmed  the  hills  beyond  the  level  lea, 
And  as  we  lingered  by  the  solemn  main, 
We  knew  how  far  apart  our  paths  would  be, 
Which  never,  never  could  be  one  again. 


36  Tales  at  the  Manse.      The  £«£«  'and  his 

Daughter. 


Yes,  I  remember   one  to-night  who  lived 

At  Stokeley  Green,  a  score  of  years  ago, 

The  rare  musician.     Often  I  recall 

The  pale  Annette,  his  only  child,  and  scarce 

Seventeen,  his  sole  companion.     Other  kin 

The  man  had  none.     Born  in  a  foreign  land, 

By  masters  taught  in  Germany, 

He  was  himself  a  master  of  his   art, 

And  played  his  violin  with  such  a  skill 

That  few  could  equal  it  beyond  the  sea, 

Much  less  in  all  the  region  hereabout. 

Annette,    (she  always  seemed  to  me  so  frail,) 

Not  little  of  old  Herman's  genius  had, 

And  none  who  ever  heard  her  sing  forgot 

Her  voice,  for  marvelous  I  thought  it  was, 

And  lingers  in  my  memory  yet  despite 

The  lapse  of  time.     You've  heard  in  some  deep  wood 

The  thrush,  as  you  have  lingering  stood  to  catch 

Its  clear,  ethereal  strain,  that  charmed  at  times 

The  stillness  and  your  ear.     Such  the  young  girl. 

She  was  the  thrush  Indeed  that  charmed  all  ears. 

A  gentle  nature  ever  I  remarked 

In  her.     Mild  were  her  darkly  hazel  eyes 

That  always  had  a  dreamy  look.     Her  face, 


The  Musician  'and  his  TCileS    dt    the 

Daughter. 


I  say,  as  I  have  said,  was  pale,  yet  were 
The  features  beautiful. 

Scarcely  was  heard 
The  music  of  the  old  man's  violin, 
But  with  it  Annette's  voice.     And  villagers 
Whene'er  they  went  along  the  way  at  night, 
Would  often  stop  to  listen  to  her  tones, 
The  strains  of  his  rare    instrument. 

The  face 

Of  Annette  paler  grew  as  months  went  by, 
And  yet  a  brighter  lustre  had  her  eye, 
Her  voice  lost  nothing  of  its  marvelous  tones, 
But  more  and  more  ethereal  they  seemed, 
Evoking  strange,  unearthly  harmony, 
Like  that  the  air  from  some  .^Eolian  harp 
Breathes  on  the  ravish'd  ear. 

"  She  must  not  sing," 
The  old  physician  said  to  Hoff  one  day. 
4 '  Too  weak  the  girl  to  exercise  her  gift 
Of  song.     I  know  whereof  I  speak.     Her  hold 
On  Life  is  by  a  slender  thread.     So  bid 
Her  for  the  present  sing  no  more." 

And  went 

The  summer,  came  the  mellow  days, 
With  the  sere  leaves  of   autumn. 


Tales  at  the  Manse.      The  Musician  'and 

Daughter. 


It  was  one 

October  night.     The  wind  was  up.     The  vines 

Against   the  window-panes  and  casement  swung, 

The  broken  clouds  across  the  sky  were  driven, 

Obscuring  oft  the  moon.     And  fitfully 

Upon  the  lawn,  from  Herman's  cottage,  shone 

The  lamp-light  through  the  restless  honeysuckle. 

Then  was  it  that  along  the  chilly  air, 

At  length,  to  ear  of  villager,  were  borne 

The  strains  of  the  musician's  violin, 

The  rare  tones  of  Annette.     'Twas  said  the  notes 

Were  from  a  famous  foreign  opera, 

Composed  by  some  old  master.     Hour  by  hour 

Ceased  not  the  strains,  against  the  windows  toss'd 

The  woodbine  in  the  gusty  wind,  the  rack 

Across  the  moon  was  driven.     More  rapturous 

The  music  grew  of  Herman's  violin, 

The  tones  of  Annette's  voice.     And  still  the  light 

Flares  from  the  narrow  casement  on  the  lawn, 

As  from  it  yet  the  rapturous  harmony 

Floats  on  the  autumn  breeze.     But  suddenly 

It  ceases.     Nothing  breaks,  at  last,   the  hush, 

The  solemn  stillness  of  the  lonely  room, 

But  the  wild  night! 

So  quiet  was  her  sleep 


Tale  V. 
The  Musician  and  his          TdleS    dt    tU&    MOTlSe.  39 

Daughter. 


At  morn — a  dreamless  sleep.     Look'd  warm  the  sun 
At  noon  through  rifts  of  golden  cloud. 

They  bore 

Her  through  the  churchyard  gate,  and  laid 
Her  by  the  locust,  ere  its  yellow  leaves 
Were  shed. 

'Twas  said,  that  afterward,  at  night, 
From  yonder  cottage  could  be  often  heard 
Old  Herman's  violin  and  Annette's  tones. 


Gently  broke  the  languid  tide 
On  the  strand  beyond  the  lea — 
Faded  from  their  sight  the  ships, 
As  they  watched  the  sinking  sun, 
Sitting  by  the  sea. 

Went  at  length  the  sunset  flush, 
Stole  the  shadows  o'er  the  lea — 
Heard  the  quiet  listening  moon, 
But  reveals  no  words  they  spoke, 
Sitting  by  the  sea. 

And  ceased  the  music  of  the  harpsichord, 
The  voice  of  Myra  on  the  listening  ear. 


MOSSES. 

First  Poems. 


Spirit  of  Beauty, 

I  obeyed  thy  will, 

Let  me  follow  thee  still 


AFTER  THE  SUMMER. 

THIS  afternoon  the  autumn  winds  are  silent, 
Which  crept  so  chill  along  the  slope  at  morning, 
And  looks  to-day  so  bare  the  lonely  orchard. 

At  length  has  come  the  dreamy,  sere  October : 
The  daylight  sleeps  upon  the  noiseless  upland, 
And  soft  the  haze  that  fills  the  voiceless  valley. 

A  mile  away,  the  river  burns  and  glistens, 
Through  yonder  willow  gleams  the  distant  village 
A  shaft  of  fire  above  it  flames  the  church-spire. 

The  woodbine  listless  droops  about  the  casement, 
Nor  stirs  the  maple  by  the  quiet  doorway, 
And  sheer  against  the  sky  leans  the  still  locust. 


44  Mosses.  Poem  L 


After  the  Summer. 


As  in  my  room  I  sit  with  busy  fancy, 

And  thinking  of  the  vanished  days  of  summer, 

Sings  Zilla  at  her  task  a  plaintive  ballad : 

The  landscape  no  longer  is  smiling, 
The  leaves  in  the  woodland  are  sere; 

The  note  of  the  robin  is  husht, 
And  pale  is  the  wane  of  the  year. 

The  cowslip  blows  not  in  the  meadow, 

The  rose  and  the  lily  are  dead, 
The  sparrows  and  kinglets  have  come, 

But  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  have  fled. 

But  the  thrush  will  come  back  and  the  swallow, 
When  the  sun  shall'  have  melted  the  snows, 

To  the  meadow  the  lily  return, 
At  length,  to  the  cottage  the  rose. 

Yet  the  spring  to  man's  life  twice  comes  not, 
Not  twice  to  its  landscape  its  flush; 

Blooms  the  rose  or  the  lily  but  once, 
But  once  comes  the  swallow  and  thrush ! 

Warm  is  the  sunshine  on  the  honeysuckle, 
Beyond  I  catch  the  sight  of  sombre  hemlocks, 
And  far-off  glimpses  of  the  dusty  highway. 

Below  the  vacant  garden  gleams  the  sumac, 
White  on  the  hillside  are  the  leafless  birches, 
And  o'er  the  grave  of  summer  broods  the  autumn. 


UNDER  THE  WILLOW. 

A  RUSTIC  fence  upon  the  slope, 

Not  far  beyond  the  orchard  trees, 

Surrounds  a  plot  of  freshest  sward, 

A  hillock  mark'd  by  two  white  stones. 

On  the  rich  soil  the   clover  blooms, 

So  green  is  there  the  eglantine, 

A  willow  by  a  headstone  droops, 

And  moss  half  hides  the  simple  name. 

In  Elmer's  field  the  mowers  swing 

Their  scythes  below  in  rhythmic  time, 

And  through  the  orchard  conies  the  talk 
Of  laborers  in  the  curling  corn. 


Under  the  Willow. 


Leans  one  against  the  fence  hard  by 

The  peaceful  spot  and  headstone  pale, 

As  gently  stirs  the  summer  breeze 

The  willow-tree  and  eglantine. 

To-day  the  bramble  bush  is  rank, 

Its  ripe  fruit  glowing  through  the  leaves, 
And  nodding  near  the  wooden  gate, 

It  shifts  its  shadow  on  the  wall. 

"'Twas  here  we  walkt  one  quiet  eve 

The  path  beyond  the  ash,"  he  said, 

"And  lingers  over  Wayland's  wood 
In  fancy  still  the  sinking  sun, 

When  friendships  we  recall'd  so  oft, 

AVhich  then  were  dead  with  buried  years, 

And  fortune's  fickle  change — but  oft 

What  ruthless  Death  from  Time  had  won. 

And  swing  with  rhythmic  strokes  their   scythes 
The  mowers  in  the  sultry  field, 

While  through  the  orchard  comes  the  talk 
Of  laborers  in  the  curling  corn. 


win,*.  Mosses.  47 


w.iow. 


And  swings  the  bramble  in  the  wind, 

Its  ripe  fruit  glowing  through  the  leaves. 

As  nodding  by  the  wooden  gate, 

It  shifts  its  shadow  on  the  wall. 

The  sunlight  sleeps  upon  the  grass, 

The  soft  breeze  steals  along  the  slope, 

The  willow  rustles  o'er  the  mound, 

And  near  it  rocks  the  eglantine  ! 


DRIFT. 

WE  sat  that  evening  in  the  yellow  mansion, 

As  shone  the  glimmering  firelight  on  the  hearthstone, 

And  o'er  the  landscape  glowed  the  autumn  sunset. 

And  in  the  pauses  of  our  talk  our  faces 
Turned  long  and  often  to  the  narrow  windows, 
Where  in  the  sunlight,  swung  the  restless  woodbine. 

Hard  by  the  oaks  were  red  among  the  pine-trees, 
Brown  were  the  fields  of  meadow  land  beyond  us, 
And  burned  the  maple  by  the  ancient  doorway. 


Mosses. 


Gleamed  in  the  glimmer  of  the  waning  daylight 

The  light  spray  of  the  restless  surf  below  us. 

And  on  the  shore  we  heard  the  long  waves  breaking. 

Beyond  we  looked  so  often  to  the  lighthouse 
Which  rose  so  still  and  dark  above  the  waters, 
Or  sometimes  gazed  upon  the  dusky  headland. 

While  in  the  distance,  as  our  eyes  turned  seaward, 
We  saw  three  white  sails  on  the  far  horizon, 
And  over  them  the  pale  moon  at  its  quarter. 

Then  as  the  evening  stole  so  softly  o'er  us, 
And  faded  from  our  sight  the  distant  village, 
The  fields  of  autumn  in  the  deepening  shadows, 

And  in  the  twilight  of  the  quiet  landscape, 
The  dark  hills  loomed  beyond  the  silent  meadow 
So  dim  and  vague  to  our  imperfect  vision, 

Within  was  warm  revived  our  ancient  friendship, 
The  Past  yet  glowing  from  its   half -dead  ashes, 
While  in  the  fireplace  burned  the  dying  embers. 

7 


UNDER  PIN*:  BOUGHS. 

So  darksome  are  your  boughs,   unquiet  pine-tree, 

Within  the  mellow  moonlight,   and  so  heavy 

Your  midnight  shadow  on  the  summer  greensward. 

And   over  me  where  now  I  lie  and  listen, 
I  hear  like  whispers  from  mysterious  voices, 
The   faint,  low  murmur  of  the  fitful  night-wind. 

0  pine-tree !   so  unquiet  in  the  midnight, 
And  always  in  your  sombre  branches  sighing, 
Like  some  unhappy  spirit  earthward  straying, 

In  all  the  burden  of  your  constant  sadness, 

One  plaint  you  have — 'tis   u  Nevermore  "  and  "Never,' 

Whispers  of  Yesterday  and  To-morrow ! 


IN  THE  LAP  OF  EARTH. 
HARD  by  the  dusty  highway  of  the  village,  Not  far  from 

the  well- 

The  ancient  wall  secludes  the  still  inclosure,  worn  road. 

A  peaceful  plot  of  earth,  the  village  churchyard. 

And  near  it  stands  the  ancient  church  whose  windows   , 

Near  it  the 

On  one  side  from  the  high  and  narrow  casements,    .        rustlc  fane> 
Look  silent  o'er  it  with  their  panes  so  sombre. 


Rank  grows  the  grass  beneath  its  solemn  shadow,  Luxuriant 

So  dense  and  wild  on  that  dark  soil  the  greenery,  greenery 

there. 

And  rank  the  elder  by  the  gloomy  gateway. 


52 


Mosses. 


Poem  V. 
In  the  Lap  of  Earth. 


Across  the  wall  luxuriant  creeps  the  bramble, 
And  groups  of  children  in  the  pleasant  weattu 
Will  often  come  to  pluck  its  o'er-ripe  berries. 


And  there  you'll  see  the  red  fruit  of  the  eglantine, 
And  here  and  there  a  sad,  low  shrub  of  hemlock, 


About  the 

place 
can  be  seen 

evergreen,       A  stunted  fir,  a  scarlet-colored  sumac. 


Sometimes  a  willow  or  a  scattered  aspen^ 
A  willow  or     A  rosebush  there  which  early  blooms  in  summer, 


an  aspen. 


On  some  low  mound  the  green  leaves  of  the  ivy. 


Man  an 


There  oft  you'll  see  the  white  flowers  of  the  bindweed, 
And  every  May  the  violet  or  the  bellwort, 
In  later  months  the  aster  and  the  cinquefoil. 


in  autumn  The  leaves  yet  glowing  on  the  wrinkled  grapevine, 

%leg7apse°f  In  the  bare  birches  and  the  leafless  locust, 

vlbirches e  Or  by  the  fence  a  lingering  goldenrod. 

and  locust. 


Soft  is 

the  twilight 

there. 


The  shades  of  night  upon  the  grass  are  falling, 

"Where  yet  a  woman  lingers  in  the  twilight, 

And  through  the  plaintive  silence  steal  these  accents : 


In  the  Lap  of  Earth. 


Mosses.  53 


u  G-reen  is  their  turf,  so  green,  who  here  are  sleeping ! 

The  hillock  long  be  green  where  weeps  the  willow,          a  bSbck, 

And  twines  the  ivy  round  this  quiet  headstone. 

Here  oft  is  seen  the  king-cup  and  the  daisy, 

And  ever  on  this  spot  the  year's  first  violet,  A  voice. 

Here  every  coming  autumn  late  the  aster." 


ON  LOOKING  AT  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  BURNS. 

IN  fancy  winds  the  Doon  and  blooms  the  heather, 
Still  waves  on  Coila's  sunny  rigs  the  thistle, 
And  caller  gowans  deck  the  field  each  season. 

There  Spring  its  soft  flush  brings  to  all  the  landscape. 
Looks  fair  on  bonnie  braes  the  skies  of  Summer, 
And  golden  Autumn  shines  on  fell  and  dingle. 


Oft  as  the  light  of  morning  gilds  the  upland, 
Or  in  the  shaw  the  Doon  at  mid-day  lingers, 
Or  nightly  sleeps  the  moon  upon  its  bosom, 


Poem  VI. 
On  Looking  at  the, 
Portrait  of  Burns. 


Mosses 


55 


Oft  as  are  heard  in  mellow  days  the    voices 
Of  can  tie  harvesters  within  the  ryefield, 
Or  talk  of  reapers  in  the  bearded  barley, 


The    reapers 

and 
the  harvest. 


Or  lads  and  lassies  gather  at  the  hamlet, 

In  moonlight  dance  upon  the  leesome  greensward, 

Or  in  the  gloamin  chat  beneath  the  hawthorn, 


The  moon 
light  dance, 

the  chat 
beneath  the 

hawthorn. 


Or  often  as  the  cotter  sits  at  even 

With  ruddy  face  before  the  glowing  hearthstane, 

And  near,  with  quiet  air,  the  gentle  guidwife, 


The  cotter 

sitting  by  the 

fire,  the 

guidwife 

hard  by. 


Or  caddies  clatter  idly  at  the  alehouse, 

Or  household  tale  is  told  by  winter  fireside, 

Or  caiiin  croons  her  song  beside  the  chimlie, 


Or  caddies 
clattering  at 

the  hamlet, 

or   fireside 

talk,  orcarlin 

crooning 

her  song, 


So  long  shall  there  each  rural  scene  and  pleasure, 
Lang  Syne  to  every  Scot  so  oft  reviving, 
Recall  the  name  of  Scotia's  rustic  poet! 


So    long 
Lang  Syne 
shall  return, 


So  fresh  his  memory  shall  be  kept  forever 
By  every  breeze  that  whispers  in  the  brachen, 
Or  curls  the  grass  beside  each  Scottish   burnie, 


So  fresh 

shall  be  kept 

the    memory 

of  Scotia's 

poet. 


56 


Mosses. 


Poem  VI. 
On  Looking  at  the 
Portrait  of  Burns. 


By  every       By  every  wind  that  sways  the  summer  thistle, 
rustles         Or  stirs  the  heather  on  the  lonely   moorlan, 

the  barley. 

Or  gently  rustles  in  the  bearded  barley, 


So  fresh  his 
•hSfib°2ept 
and  Ch"mfet. 


-^y  evelT  lafl  au^  lassie  at  the  clachau, 

In  every  dance  upon  the  leesome  greensward, 

In  every  cottage  by  the  lighted  ingle  ! 


BONNIE,  beautiful. 

BRACKEN,  ferns. 

BRAE,  a  bank,  a  declivity. 

BURN,  BURNIE,  water,  a  rivulet. 

CALLER,  fresh. 

CANTIE,  cheerful,  merry. 

CLACHAN,  a  small  hamlet. 

CLATTER,  to  tell  little,  idle  stories. 

COILA,  a  district  of  Ayershire. 

COTTER,  the  inhabitant  of  a  cottage. 

CARLIN,  a  stout,  old  woman. 

CHIMLIE,  a  fireplace. 

CADDIE,  a  young  fellow. 

DINGLB,  a  dale. 


FELL,    a  level  field  on   the   side  or  top  of  a 

hill. 

GOWANS,  daisy,  dandelion,  hawkweek,  etc. 
GLOAMIN,  the  twilight. 
GUIDWIFB,  the  mistress  of  a  house. 
HEARTHSTANE,  the  hearthstone. 
HEATHER,  the  heath. 
INGLE,  a  fireplace. 
LASSIE,  a  young  woman,— a   girl— applied 

particularly  to  a  country  girl. 
LEESOME,  pleasant. 
RIG,  a  ridge. 
SHAW,  a  small  wood. 


At  p. 


WHEN   THE    LIGHT   BREEZE    OF   EVENING   WOOED    YOUR   TRESSES, 
AND   HEAVY   WAS   THE   AIR   WITH   ORCHARD    PERFUME, 
WITH    ODORS    OF  THE    LILACS   AND   THE    PEAR-TREES. 


ONE   EVE. 

WELL,  here,  at  even,  o'er  the  gate  I'm  leaning, 
By  the  still  way  that  leads  to  yonder  village, 
Whose  panes  against  the  western  sky  are  gleaming. 

And  from  the  Past  one  far-off  eve  is  shining, 

So  warm  in  fancy  is  a  vanished  sunset, 

When  all  the  air  was  genial  with  the  spring-time : 


When  the  light  breeze  of  evening  wooed  your  tresses, 
And  heavy  was  the  air  with  orchard  perfume, 
With  odors  of  the  lilacs  and   the  pear-trees : 
8 


58  Mosses.  Poemvn- 


One  Eve. 


When  half  in  shadow  lay  the  vale  beyond  us, 
And  half  the  elms  below  were  toucht  with  sunshine, 
While  at  our  feet  the  shallow  streamlet  lingered : 

When  long  we  talked  of  the  bright  days  of  summer, 
Which  soon  would  bring  the  field-sparrow  to  the  upland 
At  length  the  wood-thrush  to  the  silent  forest. 

And  here,  at  even,  o'er  the  gate  I'm  leaning, 
While  now,  I  think,  so  softly  sleep  the  shadows 
On  one  pale  stone  among  the  quiet  willows ! 


SEAWEED. 


Some  seaweed  strewn  upon  the  shore, 
Where  breaks  the  tide  of  Life  forevermore, 


A  GLEAM  OF  MEMORY. 


THE  hour  I  well  recall, 

The  pleasant  lawn,  the  vacant  way, 

Before  the  porch  the  ancient  fir, 

The  room  wherein  I  sat  with  her, 

The  flower-piece  on  the  wall, 

The  sunset  flush 

That  softly  shone  between 

The  quiet  vines, 

As  stole  the  dreamy  hush 

Of  evening  over  all  the  scene. 

And  I  remember  still 

When  the  warm  light  went  out  above  the  hill, 


62  Seaweed. 


And  through  the   ivy  faintly  gleam'd 
The  lamp  hard  by  within  the  sacristy, 
So  long  across  the  fields  we  looked 
Upon  the  moonlit  sea. 

Yet  in  the  hush 

Of  summer  eves, 

Warm  glows  and  dies  the  sunset  flush 

Among  the  honeysuckle  leaves, 

And  in  my  fancy  one, 

Within  the  shadows  of  the  silent  room, 

Though  over  her  the  summer  grass  is  rank, 

Still  fixes  oft  her  wistful  look  on  me, 

Then  gazes  through  the  moonlit  air 

Across  the   shimmering  sea ! 


THE   SEXTON. 

I'M  thinking,  sir,   I  know  it,  every   rod 

And  foot  of  ground  hard  by,  and  I  have  been 

The  sexton  here  for  many  a  year,  I'll  say, 

And  made  the   graves  here'bouts.     Well,  yes,  the  place 

Is  getting  pretty  full  of  mounds. 

He  stood 

Beneath  the  locust-tree  and  lean'd  across 
His  spade. 

You  see  that  headstone  green  with  moss, 
Between  two  smaller  ones  beyond  the  path. 
I  well  remember  when  Job  Randall  went 
To  his  last  home.     'Twas  in  a  nipping  air, 
'Faith,  it  was  in  the  bitter  wind  of  one 
December  day.     He's  never  minded  much 
The  weather  since  I  laid  him  bv  the  wall. 


Seaweed. 


The  Sexton. 


You  see   the  grave  a  few  rods  from  the  gate, 

Where  falls  the  shadow  of  the  bramble-bush, 

O'  afternoons,  upon  a  low,  white  stone. 

Seth  Peters  I  remember  well.     Twas  on 

A  sharp  mid-winter  day  I  buried  him 

Beneath  the  snow.     But  snug  he's  laid,  I'm  sure, 

In  yonder  spot  since  then. 

There  at  your  left, 

The  third  one  in  the  row,  my  friend,  I  call 
A  handsome  slab.     'Tis  not  a  score  of  years 
Ago  I  heap'd  the  earth  on  'Lijah  Lane, 
Old  'Lijah,  may  be  you  have  never  heard 
Of  him,  and  you're  a  stranger  in  these  parts. 
But  in  the  mansion  over  there  he  lived, 
Where  you  can  see  the  sycamore.     He   had 
A  deal  of  money  when  he  died,  and  hugged 
His  gold.     Yet  little  has  he,  but  enough 
To-day,  a  tombstone  and  that  patch  of  ground. 
Just  there  the  headstone  at  your  right,  may  be 
A  rod  from  yonder  ash  which  shades  the  path, 
I  used  to  think,  too,  was  a  handsome  slab. 
But  o'er  it  yearly  creeps  the  dull,  gray  moss, 
Which  almost  hides  the  name  of  Walter  Clare. 
Folks  said  he  was  a  poet.     All  I  know, 
He  sometimes  walked  about  the  village  street, 


The   Sexton. 


Seaweed.  65 


Yet  oft  would  wander  through  the  fields  and  lanes 

Alone  in  pleasant  weather,  sit  for  hours 

Beside  a  brook  and  listen  to  the  sound 

It  made  among  the  alders.     Once   it  was, 

A  bright  June  day,  that  by  old  Lockwood's  mound 

He  lingered  as  I  broke  the  greensward  there, 

One  afternoon.     "  "Tis  not  so   poor  a  spot 

To  rest  in  when  one  lays  his  burden   down," 

He  said.     Just  then  the  shadow  of  the  church 

Had  toucht  the  grave  beyond.     The  robin  sang 

A  pleasant  song  upon  the  aspen-tree. 

And  here  the  poet,  too,  was  brought  one  day, 

Before  the  next  year  went.     But  by  the   ash 

So  early  blooms  the  king-cup  over  him, 

So  late  the  aster  and  the  gotdenrod. 

I  like  to  see  a  willow  by  a  grave. 

'Tis  not  so  gloomy  as  your  fir  or  pine, 

And  casts  a  pleasant  shade.     The  willow- tree 

Is  green  to-day  where  waves  the  eglantine 

On  Ellen  Archer's  grave.     Ah !  she  was  young, 

A  lily,  sir,  that  faded  summers  since. 

So  rank  is  there  the  grass  !  Yet  as  I  lean 

Across  my  spade,  still  young  I  fancy  her, 

As  when  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 

Her  face  at  church  upon  a  Sabbath  morn, 


66  Seaweed.  T,Po«m  »• 

Ihe  Sexton 


Or  hear  her  sweetly  sing  the  evening  hymn. 

Too  young,  too  young  and  fair  to  die,  I  thought. 

'Twas  when  I  saw  her  cold,  fair  face,  and  placed 

A  single  rose-bud  in  her  snow-white  hand. 

Then  at  the  funeral  they  sung  the  hymn 

I'd  heard  her  sing  but  three  short  months  before. 

The  other  day,  'twas  but  the  other  day, 

I  stood  a  half -hour  by  her  hillock.     You 

May  be  will  think  it  strange.     But  somehow,  friend, 

The  thought  of  her  fill'd  both  my  eyes  with  tears. 

I  know  the  dead  forever  are  at  rest. 

The  young  who  die  sleep  well,  and  sound  th-2  old, 

In  this  still  spot.     Yes,  yes,  the  young  lie  down 

At  morning,  but  the  old,  I'm  sure,  are  glad 

To  reach  the  goal  ^t  night.     There's  some  that  say 

A  churchyard  is  a  lonesome  place.     To  me 

It  is  a  kind  o'  pleasant  spot.     And  here 

I  often  think  I'll   knock  at  Life's  last  inn 

At  nightfall,  when  the  weary  day  is  done. 


TOWARD  THE   BOURNE. 

IMPALPABLE,  yet  visible, 

One  wandering  in  the  dewy  air, 
Beside  me  walkt  with  gentle  mien, 

With  pensive  face  and  flowing  hair. 

No  word  she  spoke,  but  beckoned  oft 

To  one  low  star  whose  steady  light 

Gleamed  over  fields  beyond  our  ken, 
As  on  we  wended  in  the  night. 

So  long  we  kept  our  westward  course, 

We  roamed  as  in  a  world  of  dreams, 

In  moonlit  vales,  o'er  lengthening  plains, 

And  trod  the  banks  of   unknown  streams. 


Seaweed. 


Toward  the  Bourne. 


Behind  us  lay  the  dusky  fields 

O'er  which  our  feet  had  fared  so  far, 
But  in  the  west  so  brightly  shone 

Upon  us  still  the  one  low  star. 

We  walkt  the  strand  so  chill  and  drear, 
We  sailed  the  low  tide  lightly  o'er, 

As  rode  the  boat  the  silent  sea, 

And  gently  dipt  the  boatman's  oar ! 


THE  SOUL'S  ECLIPSE. 


THE  seasons  pass, 

And  yet  so  much  from  all  the  world  is  gone, 

Since  the  one  hour 

Which  I  recall,  alas  ! 

There  is  for  me  no  glory  of  the  dawn 

Or  mid-day,  or  of  setting  suns, 

Or  starlit  night, 

Nor  beauty  of  the  flower 

Or  summer  grass, 

Or  shadows  sleeping  where  the  winds  are  still, 

Nor  music  to  my  ear  of  purling  rill, 


70 


Seaweed. 


Poem  IV. 
The  Soul's  Eclipse. 


Nor  calm  delight  of  solitude 
Within  the  pathless  wood, 
And  glows  no  more  the  golden  haze 
That  fill'd  the  quiet  autumn  days. 

The  months  go  by  apace, 

Abides  with  me 

But  Memory. 

Henceforth  one  hour  shall  unforgotten  be, 

The  hour  I  looked  on  Death's  pale  face. 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

So  long  a  while,  remember,  we've  been  friends. 
It's  nigh  two  score  of  years  that  you've  known  me, 
And  I've  known  you,  James  Strong.     I  see  your  farm, 
And  you  see  mine.     Hard  by  is  each  to  each, 
Between  them  but  a  scant  half-mile.     And  we 
Were  friendly  neighbors  not  three  months  ago. 
I'll  own  my  temper  sometimes  is  too  quick, 
And  some  hard  things  the  other  day  I  said 
Of  you,  at  Foskett's.     Let  them  pass.     Old  friends 
Should  be  old  friends. 

I  never  was  the  man 
To  envy  your  prosperity,  James  Strong. 
Why  should  I?     Yonder  farm  of  moderate  size 
I  call  my  own,  and  where's  the  man  will  say 
To-day  I  owe  him  aught?    But  you,  you  look 


Seaweed. 


Each  morning  from  your  doorway  there  on  your 

Two  hundred  acres.     Citizens  are  we 

Of  whom  the  people  of  this  goodly  town 

Speak  well.     We've  had  enough  of  angry  talk 

About  a  paltry  bit  of  pasture  land. 

Well,  yonder  is  the  horse  I  bought  of  Rugg, 

Above  a  year  ago.  the  dappled   gray. 

The  animal  has  some  fine  points,  you  see, 

A  handsome  leg  and  neck, — a  head  I  call, 

Mark  you,  a  beauty.     Body  not  too  long, 

But  well-proportioned,  and  an  eye  I  like. 

And  there's  the  dark-bay  horse  beyond  the  roan. 

I  bought  him  when  a  colt.     No  animal 

With  fancy  points,  you  see,  and  yet  there's   not 

A  better  roadster  than  the  bay.     But  come, 

The  horn  has  sounded.     Now  the  dinner  waits. 

So  no  excuses,  you  shall  dine  with  me, 

When  we'll  discuss  a  sirloin  roast,  the  crops 

And  markets,  try  the  wine  which  Kate  has  made. 


THE   TWO   TRAVELLERS. 

WHERE  the  sunset  glows  through  the  leafless  top 

Of  a  single  sycamore  tree, 
From  the  sunburnt  edge  of  the  short,  crisp  grass 

The  path  creeps  down  to  the  sea. 


Here  as  I  sit  by  the  cedar-copse 

In   sight  of  the  summer  grain, 

Breaks  on  the  hazy  air  so  low 

The  moan  of  the  distant  main. 
10 


74  S\PmilP0ri  Poem  VI. 

o  eaweea .  The  Two  Travellers> 


Beyond  me  on  the  shadowy  cliff, 

I  hear  at  times  the  jay, 
While  yonder  traveller's  steady  pace 

Plods  over  the  lonely  way. 

But  I  will  watch  the  warm  light  wane 
Till  the  day  to  its  goal  has  run, 

I  will  seaward  go  at  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
And  follow  the  track  of  the  sun ! 


THE  MAN  OF  BOOKS. 

You  see  those  sycamores.     He  lives  thereby, 
And  has  resided,  stranger,  many  a  year 
In  that  square  mansion.     Little  does  he  stir 
Abroad,  but  spends  his  days  among  his  books, 
And,  sir,  he  has  no  end  of  books.     Year  in, 
Year  out,  he  reads  them,  and  'tis  wonderful 
How  much  there  is  of  learning  in  his  head. 
You've  heard  of  cyclopedias,  and  yet 
He  is  a  library  in  himself,  my  friend. 
Ah,  well,  he  knows  a  deal  about  the  men 
Who  lived  so  long  ago.     One  afternoon, 
'Twas  at  the  mansion  but  the  other  week, 
He  learnedly  discoursed  an  hour  or  more 
Of  ancient  times,  and  much  he  had  to  say 
About  the  famous  days  of  Greece  and  Rome, 


76  RpmilPPfl  Poem  VII. 

o  vuwvvus.  The  Man  of  books 


The  mighty  things  which  then  were  done,  he  said, 

By  Alexander,  Caesar,  Hannibal, 

And  others  in  the  by-gone  ages,   sir. 

I  say,  it  is  amazing,  hearing  him 

Discoursing  of  the  orators  of  old. 

He  handles  them  like  any  scholar.     Yes, 

He's  just  an  ancient  with  the  ancients.     All 

The  greatest  orators  are  ancient,  sir, 

At  least,  so  he  has  often  told  me.     Quoth 

He,  'twas  the  afternoon  that  I  have  said, 

"Ah!  tell  me,  what's  your  modern  eloquence, 

Compared  with  that  of  hoar  antiquity  ?" 

And  he  will  talk  you  by  the  hour,  perchance, 

About  Demosthenes  or  Cicero. 

You  see  the  gateway.     Yonder  is  the  house. 
You'll  find  him  there  behind  the  sycamores. 


ADELINE. 

IN  the  depths  of  the  deep  dark  wood 

There's  a  hush  where  the  calm  winds  sleep, 

Not  a  leaf  in  the  thick  gloom  stirs, 

Nor  the  stars  through  the  thick  leaves  peer, 

Where  the  wandering  moon  comes  not, 

And  the  sounds  of  the  day  fall  dead. 

All  day  long  sits  the  horn6d  owl 

In  the  depths  of  the  deep  dark  wood, 

But  the  silence  is  broken  there 

By  the  flap  of  his  wings  at  night, 

When  he  flies  at  the  midnight  hour 

From  his  nook  in  the  old  oak  tree. 

There  at  mid-day  sits  Adeline 

At  the  foot  of  the  gnarled  oak, 

In  the  shade  of  the  forest  still 

And  a  plaint  through  the  forest  steals: 


78       •  Seaweed. 


Adeline. 


At  yester-eve  I  pluckt  a  rose, 

(O  heart  forlorn,) 
My  lover  left  me  yester-eve, 

He  did  not  come  at  morn. 

Alas,  for  the  rose 

That  left  with  me  the  thorn. 

Fair  sun  may  rise  and  set, 
(O  heart  forlorn,) 

He  will  not  come  to-morrow  eve, 

He  will  not  come  at  morn. 
So  rare  was  the  rose, 
But  leaves  with  me  the  thorn. 


TO  DEATH'S  MESSENGER. 

TEMPT  him  with  pleasant  tones, 

Allure  him  like  the  soft  and  gentle  night, 

From  the  oppressive,  garish  light, 

The  ways  that  men  with  weary  footsteps  tread, 

To  thy  serene  abode 

Where  comes  surcease  of  sorrow, 

And  they  who  weep  to-day  will  sleep  to-morrow. 

Entice  him  with  sweet  speech, 

Win  him  to  thy  still  realm 

Where  storms  are  husht, 

Where  winds  are  lull'd  as  at  a  summer  eve, 

Where  the  harsh  sounds  that  pierce  the  day 

No  more  are  loud, 

And  wrap  thy  darkness  round  him  like  a  shroud. 


AS  HE  LEANED  OVER  HIS  AWL. 

I  STICK,  sir,  to  my  last,  and  keep  my  shop. 
Here  at  my  work  I've  sat,  my  shop  I've  kept, 
For  many  a  year.     No  stopping  place,  I  find. 
Drops  in  the  parson  of  an  afternoon 
To  chat  with  me,  and  no  one  better  likes 
A  joke  than  parson  Dale.     In  other  days 
Old  Leonard  here  would  come  to  sit  an  hour, 
Talk  of  the  weather  and  the  crops,  rehearse 
The  gossip  of  the  town.     No  more  the  door 
He  opens  now,  nor  in  the  village  street 
His  face  is  seen.     I  recollect  the  time 
They  bore  him  to  the  churchyard  on  the  hill. 
Well,  yes,  mine  is  an  honest  trade,  I  say. 
And  yet,  my  friend,  I  do  not  occupy, 


81 


You  know,  the  first  seat  in  the  synagogue. 
There  is  'Squire  Anderson,  up  the  broad  aisle, 
At  church,  he  walks,  the  sexton  with  a  bow 
Shows  the  pew-door  to  him,  and  when  he  speaks 
To  men,  they  reckon  it  an  honor.     Folks 
Are  proud  to  shake  the  hand  of  lawyer  Ladd, 
Not  mine.     Yet  mine,  sir,  is  an  honest  trade. 


11 


AFTER  THE  WRECK. 

AT  the  edge  of  the  wind-blown  pines, 

The  fisherman's  cottage  stands, 

Down  by  the  beach, 

And  the  long,  straight  reach 

Of  the  white  ^ea-sands. 


Sits  in  the  cottage  one 

Gazing  far  over  the  main 

Toward  the  quietly  setting  sun. 

And  there  by  the  window-pane 

Is  a  child  with  a  sweet,  sad  face, 

That  wistfully 

Looks  out  on  the  rippling  sea. 


Poem     XI.  V />  A/  ~7  /«/?/>/"/  o*"i 

After  the  Wreck.  lOCCllVeeU  . 


"  Not  to-Dight,  alas! 

He  comes  not  to-night," 

The  mother  says,  with  a  sigh, 

And  the  fair  child  weeps, 

And  the  mother  gazes  over  the  waves 

With  tearful  eyes  at  the  sunset  sky. 

But  down  by  the  beach 
And  the  long,  straight  reach 
Of  the  white  sea-sands, 
To  the  fisherman's  door 
Comes  the  fisherman  no  more. 


AT  THE  BURIAL, 


AT  length,  with  heavy  steps, 

They  bear  him  to  his  rest, 

One  with  the  weight  of  life  oppress'd. 

The  pallmen  slow 

Their  burden  through  the  gateway  bear, 

And  up  the  churchyard  go. 

There  is  the  fresh,  damp  heap  of  earth, 

In  it  is  thrust  the  sexton's  spade, 

With  which,  at  morn,  the  grave  he  made. 

But  soon  the  final  words  are  said. 

They  slowly  lower  the  dead, 

And  when  all  rites  are  done, 


WANES   THE   SUMMER   DAY, 

SHINE   THE   HEADSTONES   COLD. 

AT   SUNSET  FROM   THE  CHURCHYARD  GATE, 

WENT   THE   SEXTON   OLD. 


At  the  Burial. 


Seaweed.  85 


The  pallmen,  one  by  one, 

Walk  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  sun. 

Wanes  the  summer  day, 

Shine  the  headstones  cold. 

At  sunset  from  the  churchyard  gate, 

Went  the  sexton  old. 


THE  TWO  WAYS. 

'TWAS  at  the  parting  of  the  ways  we  stood, 

And  goes  the  by-way  there 

Across  the  level  lea, 

The  other  by  the  silent  wood. 

We  parted  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 

That  never  could  for  us  be  one, 

And  since  so  far  apart  our  paths  have  run. 

There  winds  the  homeward  way, 

The  other  o'er  the  lea 

Forever  to  the  deep  blue  sea! 


UNDER  THE  PINE. 


Here,  as  I  sit  beneath  the  pine-tree, 
Which  sighs  and  moans, 

Awake  within  my  soul  the  echoes 
Of  its  low  tones. 


THE  LIKENESS  ON  THE  WALL. 

HERE  is  her  portrait  o'er  the  marble  bust, 
And  oftentimes  upon  the  silent  face 
I  gaze,  when  I  am  in  a  musing  mood. 
I'm  sure  you'll  say  the  countenance  is  fine. 
The  quiet  eyes  are  fair  and  full  of  thought, 
But  mild  and  dreamy  as  an  autumn  day. 
The  forehead  is  not  high  but  beautiful  — 
The  brows,  I  think,  are  delicately  arch'd, 
The  nose  as  rare  as  Ariadne's.     Yes, 
The  skill  of  Valentine  so  well  has  limn'd 
The  lineaments.     See,  now  the  hair  looks  warm, 
12 


Poem  I. 

90  Under  the  Pine.  TheP^ef,s 

on   the   Wall. 


Which  falls  about  the  temples,  lending  half 

Its  lustre  to  the  neck  in  this  soft  sun 

That  through  the  casement  gleams.    And  sometimes  here 

I  linger  in  these  quiet  days  an  hour 

Before  this  portrait.     The  original, 

At  rest,  lies  in  the  classic  soil  of  Rome, 

Hard  by  the  pyramid  of  Cestius. 

It  is  a  still,  secluded  spot  on  which 

The  turf,  moist  with  the  soft  Italian  dew. 

Each  year  is  green.     The  violets  blossom  now 

Upon  it  every  Roman  winter.     There 

Might  one  sleep  well. 

Quite  true,  you'll  trace,  I  think, 
Some  features  in  the  physiognomy 
And  mine  —  a  family  resemblance  — -  but 
The  likeness  is  not  marked.     Younger  than  I 
By  fifteen  years,  one  mother  had  we  both, 
Not  the  same  father.     Of  a  gentle  nature  — 
Of  better  mould,  indeed,  than  common  clay, 
'Tis  ever  thus  that  I  recall  her. 

I 

Remember  well  —  'twas  only  three  short  months 
Before  we  laid  her  in  her  Roman  grave  — 
One  cloudless  evening  of  an  autumn  day 


Under  the  Pine.  91 


We  sat  upon  the  Palatine,  and  saw 

The  clear  sun  set  —  as  all  the  Sabiue  hills, 

The  summits  of  the   distant  Apennines, 

With  crimson  glowed  and  purple,   till  at  last. 

The  lingering  sunlight  through  the  ancient  trees 

Fell  on  the  ruins  at  our  feet,  and  stole 

The  deepening  shadows  over  all  the  scene. 

There  as  we  sat  beneath  the  cypresses 

And  watched  at  times  the  evening  star, 

As  one  by  one  the  silent  hours  slid  by  — 

Long  talk'd  we  of  that  path  our  feet  had  trod, 

And  oft  of  what  had  been,  but  what  would  be 

No  more  forever  —  of  the  mystery 

Of  Life,  and  how  the  glory  of  the  world 

Doth  fade,  while  Faith  and  Love  remain. 

There  as  we  sat  beneath  the  cypresses 

And  watched  the  evening  star  —  as  on  her  face 

The  moonlight  fell. — "A  few  short  mouths," — she  said, 

"And  this  frail  frame  of  mine  will  quite   succumb, 

This  transitory  dream  be  o'er  —  and  here 

Amid  the  shadows  of  a  twilight  Past, 

My  sleep  be  calm  even  in  an  alien  soil." 

And  through  the  solemn  silence  then  we  heard 

The  convent  bell  upon  the  Co3lian  Hill 

Tolling  for  midnight  orisons.     Ah,  sir, 


92 


Under  the  Pine. 


Poem  I. 
The  Likeness 
on  the   Wall. 


How  often  with  the  memory  of  her, 
Comes  back  the  hour ! 

So  mellow  falls  the  light 

Upon  the  face !     There  something  you  will  learn 
Of  that  fair  spirit  whose  remembrance  still  — 
Through  every  year  —  is  fragrant  in  my  soul. 


A  MILL-IDYL. 
The  Mill. 

IF,  when  you  go  toward  Landis  Green,  you  turn 

A  short  half-mile  this  side  the  noiseless  vill, 

And  cross  the  low-arched  bridge  that  spans  the  brook, 

Where  leans  a  clump  of  alders  o'er  the  bank, 

You'll  see  beside  the  smooth  and  narrow  way, 

A  dozen  rods  beyond  the  babbling  stream, 

Behind  a  locust  and  a  sycamore^ 

The  mill — and  scarce  a  rod  above  it  where 

The  willows,  rank  with  ooze  and  moisture,  droop 

Above  a  shallow  pond.     In  summer  days 

A  pleasant  and  a  dreamy  shade  is  cast 


94  Under  the  Pine. 


Along  the  by-road  and  about  the  mill, 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  pond. 

There  by  it  every  year  the  spearwort  blooms, 

And  at  its  margin  flarnes  the  marigold, 

While  bars  of  golden  light  the  water  streak, 

And  through  the  leaves  the  warm  west  glows,    whene'r 

The  sun  is  low.     You  mount  the  great  stone  step, 

Across  the  ancient  well-worn  threshold  pass, 

As  swims  the  light  dust  in  the  beams  that  steal 

Through  the  dim  window-panes.      And  there  the  sound 

Of  grinding  swells  the  hazy  air  within, 

Which  shakes  the  heavy  cobwebs  as  tiiey  hang 

About  the  windows  where  the  huge  flies  buzz 

And  die.     Therein  so  oft  on  cloudless  nights 

The  silent  moon  looks  wan.     And  window-frames 

There  rattle  with  a  melancholy  sound, 

By  gusty  night-winds  stirred.     Then  sway  the  long, 

Lithe  willows  in   the  moonlight,   and  no  more 

The  tranquil  shadows  sleep,  but  wildly  dance 

About  the  lonesome  spot,  and  sleeps  no  more 

Within   the  wrinkled  pond  the  midnight  sky. 

In  at  the  eastern  window  faintly  peers 

The  morn.     And  half  the  long  warm  afternoons, 

Through  the  great  doorway  burns  the  westering  sun, 

And  creeps  the  shade  athwart  the  dusty  panes, 


ApMm-idii.  Under  the  Pine. 


As  swift  the  swallow  flits  about  the  eaves, 
Or  sits  the  blackbird  in  the  alder-bush 
Hard  by  o' noons  within  the  sleepy  run. 
The  Miller. 

The  world   is  old, 

And  the  burden  thereof, 
But  the  phoebe  swings 
In  the  reeds  to-day, 
On  the  water-way. 

Thinks  the  miller  as  he 
By  the  hopper  stands, 
uSo  long  have  spun 

The  mill-stones  round, 

As  the  grain  I've  ground  ! 

Yet  the  great  wheel  turns, 
And  the  mill-stones  spin, 
And  still  I  grind, 

By  the  hopper  here, 

The   grain  each  year. 

So  the  seasons  go, 

While  to-morrow  brings 
The  selfsame  task, 

Till  the  wheel  at  the  mill, 
And  Life  stand  still." 


INSIDE   THE   GATE. 

YOU'LL  see  it  near  the  ancient  gateway, 
But  a  rod  from  the  low,  dark  pine  — 
I  cannot  tell  how  many  summers 
Has  bloom'd  over  Alice 
The  clover. 

It  can  be  scarcely  less  than  twenty 
Since  the  willow  was  planted  there  — 
And  many  autumns  I  remember 
Has  swung  by  the  headstone 
The  aster. 


Inside  the  Gate. 


Under  the  Pine.  97 


It  can  be  scarcely  less  than  twenty 
Since  the  eglantine  nodded  there, 
And  waved  above  the  spot  the  daisy 
Or  crept  o'er  her  bosom 
The  ivy. 

And  so  beyond  the  ancient  gateway 
But  a  rod  from  the  low,  dark  pine, 
To-day  the  earth  is  over  Alice, 
And  leans  o'er  the  footstone 
The  yarrow. 


13 


LOW-TIDE. 


He  askt 

if  it  was  the 

tide. 


I  said 

it  was   the 

tide, 


Breaking 
on  the 
shore, 


"WAS  it  the  Sea?" 

He  asked  — 

And  far  off  broke  the  tide. 

The  words 

In  slow  and  faltering  speech  he  spoke. 

I  gazed  upon  his  countenance  so  pale, 

Then  out  into  the  soft  midsummer  night. 

"It  is  the  tide 

Which  breaks  below 

Upon  the  solemn  shore, 

The  never-resting  waves 

That  o'er  the  shingly  beach 

Are  breaking  on  the  midnight  strand,"  I  said 

And  stole  the  moonlight 


Low-Tide. 


Under  the  Pine.  99 


Through  the  woodbine 

Which  the  faint  air  scarcely  stirr'd  — 

u  There  shines  upon  the  Sea 

The  mellow  Moon. 

And  at  the  dawn  will  yonder  set  so  warm! 

Yes,  it  is  the  tide, 

The  breaking  of  the  surf  upon  the  shore,  Betheath 

The  moaning  of  the  main  beneath  the  full-orb'd  Moon  !"  Moon' 


Was  it  the  sea? 

Or  broke  the  tide  of  Life  so  low?  the 

Tide? 

So  calmly  broke  the  tide  of  Life, 
So  low  in  Death's  deep  silence  there. 


And  at  my  window, 

Looking  out  between  the  vines 

Upon  the  moonlit  bay,  I  Iea»'d 

against  the 

As  long  I  lean'd  against  the  panes,  anTErd 

I  heard  no  sound  but  of  the  Sea.  the°nsea. 


SEAWARD. 

ON  the  shore  I  stood, 

By  the  ebbing  tide, 

Faintly  on  the  long  beach  breaking. 

And  afar  I  saw, 

On  the  deep,  blue  main, 

Three  ships  slowly  sailing  seaward. 


Three  ships  in  the  sun, 
O'er  the  deep,  blue  main, 
Toward  the  summer  sunset  sailing. 


Poem  V. 
Seaward. 


Under  the  Pine. 


101 


Till  I   saw  them  sink, 

Slowly  dipping  low, 

To  the  golden  gates  of  evening ! 

Ah !  the  ships  that  go 
Over  Life's  wide  main, 
Time-borne  barks  returning  never  — 

Will  ye  furl  your  sails 

Yet  in  calmer  climes, 

Keeping  still  your  courses  seaward? 


NEPENTHE. 

So  silent  is  the  room  —  so  husht  and  dim  — 

"Where  nothing  breaks  the  stillness  but  the  sound 

Of  our  low  voices  —  and  the  sombre  gloom 

Is  pale  with  that  scant  light  which  yonder  steals 

Through  close-drawn  curtains  and  the  darkened  panes, 

And  yet  why  speak  in  undertones,  or  shut 

The  sunshine  out?     The  ear  of  Death  is  cold, 

Nor  would  the  eyes  that  closed  at  yester-eve, 

Be  dazed  by  this  May  morn.     So  fair,  say  you? 

Not  Life  itself  could  ever  give  to  her 

The  beauty  which  this  marble  paleness  does, 

This  marble-like  repose.     The  quiet  brow, 

The  calm  and  long-lashed  lids,  the  lips,  their  sweet 

Expression  keeping  yet,  the  dark-brown  hair 

Which  softly  falls  about  the  pleasant  neck, 


Under  the  Pine.  103 


Are  passing  fair.     You  can  but  mark,  I'm  sure, 
The  chin  so  finely  modeled  —  while  the  cheek, 
Where  scarce  you  see  the  ravage  of  disease, 
Is  in  its  wanness  beautiful  with  that 
Stray  lock  upon't. 

To-morrow  they  will  bear 
Her  hence,  and  lay  her  loveliness  away 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  aspen-tree, 
By  yonder  church. 

They'll  well  perform  their  task ! 
Alas,  too  well,  as  they  will  coldly  heap 
The  clods  upon  her  there.     And  then  I'll  wish 
The  earth  that  covers  her  would  cover  me. 
If  I  could  lie  within  the  quiet  grave 
Which  shall  forever  hide  this  lifeless  form, 
I'd  closely  press  the  clay-cold  face  to  mine, 
And  think  Death  lovely,  for  I'd  rest,  I  know, 
In  blessed  peace  with  her. 

So  by  the  church 

They'll  break  the  turf  to-morrow,  at  the  morn. 
Yes,  in  the  faint,  gray  daylight  of  the  dawn. 


AGNES. 


'TWAS  by  an  altar,  in  an  ancient  church, 
At  Michaelmas,  a  maiden  prayed  for  death  — 
And  this  the  prayer  she  prayed  so  earnestly, 
Low-kneeling  there  before  the  crucifix: 
"O  Son  of  Mary,  who  art  pitiful! 
The  freshness  and  the  greenness  of  my  life 
Is  gone  —  and  oft  my  breath  is  but  a  sigh. 
I  am  as  one  who  sits  in  cheerless  days 
Above  the  dead,  dry  mould  of  summer  fields, 
And  hears  the  mournful  autumn  sigh,    or  hears 
The  bleak  winds  wildly  wail  in  all  the  woods 
Of  spring.     So  dreary  and  so  joyless  seem, 
Alas,  all  days  to  me,  from  morn  to  eve, 


Under  the  Pine.  ios 


At  length  this  boon  I  ask  —  that  I  may  taste 
The  sweetness  and  the  blessedness  of  death." 


The  hoar  frost  came,  then  went  the  wintry  days, 
And  warmer  breezes  stir  the  maple  leaf, 
The  bramble-berry  ripens  by  the  wall. 

Late  is  the  hour,  and  scarce  the  wandering  wind 
Disturbs  the  hush  of  yonder  lonely  spot, 
When  underneath  the  silent  summer  moon, 
She  with  a  lover  in  the  churchyard  walks. 
Why  seek  the  two  the  churchyard  lone  and  still, 
Or  there  rewalk  the  grass-grown  path  so  oft, 
Where  headstones  glisten  in  the  moonlight  pale? 
Below  the  quiet  moon  they  tell  their  love, 
And  plight  their  troth  beneath  the  cypress  tree  ! 
And  so  All-Hallows'  soon  should  make  them  one, 
The  two  be  wed  within  the  ancient  church, 
That  stood  with  ivied  walls  and  tower  thereby, 
Where  once  the  maiden  knelt,  at  Michaelmas, 
And  prayed  before  the  crucifix  for  death. 

All-Hallow  night;  for  months  have  come  and  gone. 
Dim  burn  the  lights  within  the  ancient  church, 

14 


106  Under  the  Pine.  p£mnesVIL 


While  in  the  west  the  waning  moon  is  wan. 

So  dense  the  throng,  that  scarcely  there  is  seen 

The  haggard  sexton's  form,  whose  grave  hard  by, 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  gloomy  fir, 

To-night  is  green  —  or  hers,  the  withered  belle, 

Who  died  so  long  ago,  or  that  frail  form 

Which  so  sepulchral  looks  amid  the  crowd, 

On  whom  in  autumn  late  the  aster  blows 

Each  year  —  or  hers,  with  face  so  blanch'd,  who  pass'd 

One  summer  morn  from  earth,  and  yonder  stands 

Before  the  picture  of  the  risen  Christ  — 

Or  hers,  the  maiden  by  a  lighted  shrine, 

Whose  eyes  on  yon  Madonna  oft  are  bent, 

Who  faded  like  a  rare  and  fragile  flower 

One  far-off  June  —  or  scarce  is  noticed  hera, 

On  earth  a  castaway,  who  gazes  long 

Upon  the  likeness  of  the  Magdalen  — 

Or  hers,  on  whom  the  grass  ia  rank,  who  turns 

So  often  to  the  painting  on  the  wall, 

The  martyrdom  of  St.   Sebastian  — 

Or  hers,  within  the  twilight  of  a  niche, 

Whose  life  went  out  upon  her  wedding-day, 

On  whom  each  spring  has  waved  the  guelder-rose  — 

Or  hers,  the  fair  bride  once,  but  standing  there 

With  countenance  so  white  against  the  panes, 


Under  the  Pine.  107 


Who  faded  with  the  orange-bloom  she  wore, 
And  lies  to-night  beneath  the  eglantine ! 

Lo,  up  the  aisle  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride 
To  the  high  altar  walk.     And  there,  as  sets 
The  waning  moon,  and  tolls  the  midnight  bell 
Within  the  ivied  tower  —  the  twain  are  wed. 

And  closely  to  his  breast  he  presses  her, 

In  his  embrace !     Then  o'er  her  features  stole 

A  mortal  paleness  —  while  in  low,  faint  tones, 

As  when  a  breeze  is  dying  in  the  pines, 

She  breathed  these  words  in  slow,  expiring  breath 

"Sweet  is  thy  kiss,  and  yet  thy  lips  so  cold!  " 


THE  CHURCH  BY  THE  GREEN. 

YET  stands  the  church  by  the  village  lawn, 
And  looks  so  dim  o'er  the  churchyard  still. 

(Death,  the  reaper,  gathers  his  sheaves!) 
About  the  windows  the  woodbine  crawls, 
And  creeps  o'er  the  eaves. 

By  its  walls  the  leaves  of  the   locust  are  green, 
And  green  is  the  ash  by  the  low  church  door. 

(Leaves  grow  sere,  like  the  hopes  of  men!) 
The  swallow  builds  in  the  belfry  its  nest, 
In  the  gable  the  wren. 

And  tolls  for  the  dead  each   season  still 
The  sexton  old  the  churchyard   bell. 

("^4/i/"  he  says,    "dies  the  bloom  on  the  flower!" 
And  a  peal  far  out  he  rings  each  day 
From  the  ivied  tower ! 


THE  LAST  REQUEST. 


I'D  hoped  that  I  might  SBe  another  morn, 
But,  doctor,  ebb's  the  tide  with  me.     The  pain 
That  rack'd  my  side  is  gone,   and  now  my  brain, 
Which  was  a  whirling  world  of  cloudy  thoughts 
At  last  is  clear.     I've  something  on  my  mind 
I'd  say,  before  the  tide  goes  out.     You've  done 
What  you  could  do,  but  well  I  know,  too  well, 
I'll  never  in  the  good  ship  Neptune  make 
Another  voyage.     Ah,  sir,  closer  come, 
Or  you'll  not  hear.     If  you'd  but  take  the  load 
From  off  my  chest  which  makes  my  breath  so  short 
But  no,  you  cannot  —  if  you  could,  I'd  try 


no  Under  the  Pine. 


To  speak  above  this  faint,  low  tone.     Come  close, 
For  I  must  make  you  understand. 

O,  yes,— 

At  Inveran  I  said  she  lived,  hard  by 
The  Galway  coast.     It  comforts  me  to  think 
That  I  shall  never  know  one  bitter  tear 
She'll  shed  for  me.     No,  long  this  sleep  will  be, 
I'm  sure,  and  then  I  shall  not  heed  her  tears. 
What  sound  is  that?     Is  it  the  low  night-wind 
I  hear  a-moaning  hoarsely  in  the  pines 
In  yonder  yard?     I  thought  it  was  the  gale, 
And  we'd  been  struck  by  some  no'theaster. 

So 

The  message,  doctor,  I've  not  told  you  yet? 
Here  is  a  locket  with  her  miniature. 
This  with  the  message  send  her,  that  to-night 
My  thoughts  ofttimes  went  back  to  her,  and  say, 
Why,  say  the  voyage  ended  in  a  calm, 
At  last,  after  rough  weather. 

But  a  bell 

I  hear.     The  clock's  which  strikes  the  hour  of  twelve, 
Say  you?     I  thought  it  was  a  knell — and  toll'd 
The  fate  of  some  poor  comrade,  doctor.     Well, 
No  clay-clods  pile  on  me  when  I  am  dead  — 
They'd  press  me  down  —  the  earth  would  lie 


Poem  IX.  JT-nrloT    /7?  P     'PlTlP  111 

The  Last  Request.  U  110,61     11X6    r^JlV . 


So  like  a  stone  upon  my  breast  I  could  not  sleep. 

Ah !  'tis  low  water  and  the  tide  will  not 

Come  in.     Two  mornings  when  the  ship  leaves  port, 

Make  me  a  shroud  o'  the  ship's  sail  —  and  then 

Let  some  short  service  or  a  prayer  be  said  — 

And  be  my  grave  the  wide,  the  wide,  wild  waves  — 

The  bosom  of  the  all-embracing  sea. 


A  REVERY. 

THE  time,  the  place,   I  think,   are  now  so  distant, 
It  was  an   August  eve,  as  I  remember, 
And  we  were  sitting  on  the  quiet  grass-plot. 

So  gently  o'er  us  stole  the  night's  slow  shadow, 

So  faint  the  lamp-light  through  the  casement  glimmer'd, 

So  lightly  in  our  ears  the  woodbine  rustled. 

So  long  we  sat  and  watched  the  distant   lighthouse, 
The   far-off   village    and    the   dusky    headland, 
So   long   the   river   flowing   darkly   seaward. 

So  oft  the  languid  night-wind  stirred  your  tresses, 
So  long  our  hands  were  claspt  in  that  still  starlight, 
So  low  and  earnest  were  the  accents  spoken. 

So  mellow'd  is  the  scene  as  I  recall  it, 
As  when  upon  a  tranquil  night  in  autumn, 
The  moon  on  some  far  field  is  softly  shining! 


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